


Melancholy Hopes, These Sleepless Nights

by sammyspreadyourwings



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Blood and Injury, Boys In Love, Car Accidents, Coma, Crying, Early 70s, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Insecurity, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Permanent Injury, Polyamory, Reckless Driving, ask to tag, pre-fame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 14:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17449007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyspreadyourwings/pseuds/sammyspreadyourwings
Summary: His father would call him a bleeding heart.Freddie, free from anger, would call him a gentle soul.Roger, still cloaked in anger, would remind him that he’s kind.John, in the same clipped tone, would say that he likes the softness.--A bad argument makes Brian leave the flat. Blizzards and driving while emotional never mix.





	Melancholy Hopes, These Sleepless Nights

**Author's Note:**

> hshpft. Long story short: I had a super interesting story idea (read: dreamed it). Didn't feel like doing the world building. Took the good parts of it e.g the plot and the writing style. Shoved it into a 12-hour writing session (not at once but in one day) and blended it together. Here we are. Tags don't lie be ready for some heavy angst. At least it's pretty writing. Also, ask if you need something tagged.  
> Formatting is deliberate, I think it helps with readability but. Who knows.

Brian doesn’t remember what set off the argument. He remembers voices as white-hot coals. There was a low burning flame, nearly dead from the melancholy that settled over the flat in the gray cloud cover of an hour away blizzard. They were all stressed, exhausted, and Brian (in particular) was sad. It was only a matter of time before Freddie’s self-proclaimed bitchiest band on Earth turned their inner doubts to sharpened weapons.

The argument might have started with Roger and Freddie. Roger has made a nest of apathy between beer bottles and joints which grates against Freddie’s passion for uppers and inspiration. Words whipped around akin to the snowflakes that would soon batter their duct-taped windows to prevent drafts. John stays clear of the disaster zone, head buried in texts and wires wrapped around his wrist. Brian stays near and tries to bear the wounds meant for anyone but him.

There’s a snapping point, hidden in the whiteout. It doesn’t come from Roger’s pinpoint needles meant to jab at insecurities or Freddie’s broad ego meant to make a person feel small, but John’s holier-than-thou statements meant to anger. They’re quick and brutal and they drag Brian in the undertow.

“Maybe,” John had said, “we should all give up on this band business. Make proper men of ourselves, as Brian’s father suggested.”

The last week dinner and a comment Brian let go undefended, the wound unnoticed but festering. It hits him between the ribs, and suddenly he’s tired. Tired of the fighting and tired of being the one that gets scrapes, so the others don’t have to. He doesn’t react and keeps his lips tightly shut. Twin tidal waves of anger are directed at John now.

“We’re going to be great,” Freddie defends his dream.

“What is the fun in being proper?” Roger rebels against society.

Brian slips out of the house in a haze of melancholy and a burn that feels like brandy. It isn’t uncommon for him to leave when the fighting turns from pairs to the quartet. He can weather the storm or be a port for someone, but his voice falters like crashing waves when he tries to defend himself.

 

> **A minute after Brian leaves,** they all separate into different parts of the flat.

His father would call him a bleeding heart.

Freddie, free from anger, would call him a gentle soul.

Roger, still cloaked in anger, would remind him that he’s kind.

John, in the same clipped tone, would say that he likes the softness.

He tugs car door open and climbs in it. Brian knows that he could sit in here until the cold outside is more biting than the molten anger inside. Except, he thinks, he is done with this. Done with the band and chasing dreams. He’s always loved the stars (his parents can’t tell him if he fell in love with the stars or the guitar first) and watching them is something he could be content in. Happy even.

This band thing was always an ephemeral hope. They’re too different and too jagged to fit together. Their edges blending with words would cut one of them too deeply and too cleanly. Brian wants this to last, he’s never felt so light with other people. Roger is the sun breaking through the clouds and Freddie the endless possibility of the sky and John the baby warmth of spring.

Brian is the bleeding heart. It makes sense he’d get cut first. John’s words make it surgically clean. Time to give this up and look back at the stars in the sky and not the ones next to him. He turns the key and jumps with the shattered silence of a cold engine growl.

Leaving was the easiest thing he’s ever done: car in reverse, foot on the gas, and down the street.

Not looking back was the hardest thing he will ever do: flat getting smaller, memories behind locked doors, and possibilities melting as the first flakes on the ground.

Brian drives faster than he would dare to. He doesn’t expect to be chased. Fights are choruses in songs that they’ve rehearsed a thousand times. Words will become too cutting and mistakes realized. Silence until the others are missed. Voices after they’ve made up. Sorrys said like soothing balm and hugs like band-aids.

They’ve never been truly angry with each other.

 

> **A half an hour after Brian leaves,** the snow starts.

Brian pushes the car faster. The snow comes down in thick caresses of wind. It’s not the blizzard they’re expecting, but soon enough it will be. Winter has been a cruel mistress this year, November bitterly cold, December bitterly depressing, January bitterly cruel. Tears blur with the snow drifts.

He’s well past this country road’s speed limit. Brian’s never been here, and for a heartbeat, he’s desperately pleased that he feels like he’s the only soul on earth. Then he remembers that he’s only a fragment of that soul because he’s given it to three other people. He won’t ask for it back, he gave it willingly and there won’t be someone he loves as he does them.

 

> **An hour after Brian leaves,** they wander back into the living room.

His first mistake is speeding.

His second mistake is crying.

His third mistake is slamming on his breaks.

The car hits a patch of ice that blends into the road. He faintly recalls what to do, but panic overrules his logical mind. The breaks lock and the car tailspins. It would have been the end of it, there are no cars and he could’ve collected himself, except there’s no shoulder on the road and on both sides is hilly forest.

Brian remembers the spinning and his breath catching when his shoulder collides with the driver’s side window. The breath his forced out when the airbag deploys. Metal screeches under the weight of itself and shrubs whine against the force of the car. Glass shatters again and shards rattle around the car, some more vicious than others bite into his skin. He tastes blood and then everything stops.

 

> **Two hours after Brian leaves,** John starts making dinner for four.
> 
> **Three hours after Brian leaves,** Freddie keeps his eyes glued to the door.

When things become clear again, everything is upside down. The car’s frame is twisted in such a way that his leg is pinned, but he thinks it’s uninjured. It won’t be if tries to free it himself, there’s a jagged wedge that will slice through his thigh. That same wedge holds him tightly across the torso. A less friendly embrace because he can feel it digging into the soft flesh, but he doesn’t know if it’s cutting.

He gags when he looks down to check, only to see that part of the dashboard has impaled him. Now that he’s seen it, he can feel it moving with every breath. His clever mind makes him think that with each breath it claws deeper. Holding his breath only tells him that there are wounds higher on his chest. His lungs burn with cold and with fire and he tries to keep his breaths as shallow as possible.

A hard task when he keeps forgetting why in the first place. His head is a cacophony of ringing and throbbing. Black spots blot his vision. Not that he can see anything. The snow has stranded him in his own world. It confirms his theory that he must’ve passed out if the snow has turned the world white. Previously he could make out the trees.

He supposes it doesn’t matter how his tomb looks. No one saw him crash and only three people in the world know he’s not home, if they’ve made up by now. He desperately wishes that they have. At least when the news finally breaks, they’ll have a support system. His shoulder spasms painfully. It doesn’t exactly look like it should, the word slips through his thoughts. More words slip through his grasp than he can think.

Unlike his leg, he can free his arm from the seatbelt (thank god Roger made them all install them in their cars) tangle. Pain spikes along the bone, but he can feel his fingers and that’s more relieving than anything. Once freed he realizes his mistake as the arm flops to dangle above him. He can’t keep it towards his lap because now he’s fighting gravity. He doesn’t think he can lift it all.

Brian truthfully forgot that he was hanging upside down.

 

> **Four hours after Brian leaves,** Roger starts thinking that Brian left them for good.

The other arm is pinned where the liner of the door panel used to be.

Snow is also drifting into the open spaces of the car. Roger would be freezing, and Brian distantly wonders how he _isn’t_ in just the sweater he was wearing in the house. A sniff tells him that there’s blood in his nose, and the cold is affecting him, but he’s not feeling it. He thinks that might be something he has to worry about.

The second mistake that he makes, is not realizing that there _was_ a cut on his arm. The part he can’t see, and he’s not surprised he didn’t feel it, there’s a lot of him that’s hurt. He’s impaled and it dawns on him it should hurt a lot more than he does. Pain should be lighting an electrical fire in his brain, but he feels only pressure.

 

> **Five hours after Brian leaves,** they know something is wrong.

Brian shakes his head, but that makes the black dots dance faster and more frequently as he tries to make out the state of his arm in the near darkness. The snow that’s drifted below him is melting under the warmth of the blood dripping from him. John would remind him that he should clean the cut before bandaging it **_(_ "** _ **how do you even cut yourself on a telescope?")**._

He is going to die.

It’s the first thought that he has with outstanding clarity.

Judging by everything else, it might be his last clear thought.

A part of him, the part that likes the world being organized into categories, starts cataloging what he’s feeling and trying to compare it to what he’s read in media. He thought dying would be a lot more painful. It should be more painful. His body is mangled but be it by nature or a small miracle he doesn’t know how it’s mangled. The part of him that’s entirely emotional rebels against the idea that he’s going to die.

Getting into car wrecks after a fight with a loved one is something for novels or made-for-TV movies. If this was a movie, he’d be seeing his life flash before his eyes and paramedics would show up seconds before he’s beyond saving.

There’s no soft-edged montage of him learning how to walk or watching his mother cook. He instead hears murmur-melodies of unfinished songs, some are his but mostly Freddie’s and Roger’s. Instead of full memories, he sees each of his bandmate’s (the loves of his life) faces with their various smiles.

Roger’s is bright and proud and full of mischief. It lightens his eyes in ways that make stars jealous. Brian wants to name a star after him.

John’s is breathtaking and small and toothy. It crinkles the corner of eyes in ways that make Brian know he’s going to have laugh lines when he turns gray.

Freddie’s is tentative and genuine and sweet. It softens the smile in his eyes and makes Brian learn that he has basked in that love longer than he has the right to admit.

Quiet music and smiles aren’t the worst last thoughts to have.

 

> **Six hours after Brian leaves,** John starts pacing.

He hates knowing that he won’t get to say good-bye. If he said it now it would be drowned by the wind, it might reach their ears, but angry words will always pollute their last moments together. Brian distantly wonders how long he’s been here.

He also wonders if he keeps passing out. Each time he feels like he’s shocked, something has changed that he should’ve noticed. Like how the windshield caved under the snow already fractured from the crash or how the blood isn’t melting the snow as soon as it touches it now. Brian can see how his skin has turned ghostly blue.

It’s something he should be more worried about.

 

> **Seven hours after Brian leaves,** Freddie starts crying softly.

The music grows louder, and it’s a siren call to sleep. This entire time he hasn’t been tired. Now it feels like he can’t keep his eyes open. He thinks it sounds like Freddie’s singing, those rare times when Freddie sings in the tongue of a past he doesn’t want to look back to. The lyrics are joined by an even slow tempo 1…2…3…4… when Roger purposely slows down because he doesn’t think the rest of them are playing fast enough.

Brian wonders where John is in this song. Then he hears the steady hum of a bass, a rift that could only be formed in John’s head and explained by Freddie’s songs.

He loves them all desperately.

He desperately hopes they loved him the same.

 

> **Eight hours after Brian leaves,** Roger punches the wall.

This time he knows that he’s passing out or falling asleep or dying because the image isn’t a fragmented face that could have been anytime. It’s the first night after they slept together. Brian was the last to enter the bedroom because he wanted to try and count the stars. Freddie was soundly asleep in the middle, his arms wrapped around John’s waist. John’s head on top of Freddie’s with one leg hanging off the bed. Roger’s legs were tangled in Freddie’s, but blue eyes caught his.

**_“There you are,” Roger said, sleepy and light, “come to bed.”_ **

Brian felt love bubble in his chest. He pressed a kiss to John’s temple and the bassist leans towards him in sleep. He presses a kiss to Freddie’s hand, which instinctually wraps around his larger one. He presses a kiss to Roger’s lips when he finally crawls into bed.

No. It’s not a bad last thought at all.

He wakes up to bright lights and noises he can’t make out. There’s pressure on his face and hands and chest. A person in dark blue leans over him. It’s a strange version of heaven. He wants to go back to bed with his lovers, so he closes his eyes.

 

> **Nine hours after Brian leaves,** the snow finally stops.

It’s almost ten at night and well below ten degrees outside. John has called the May household to learn that Brian hasn’t been by recently. Freddie is in a panic, the cause flipping from Brian finally calling it quits to something worse. Roger feels cold and doesn’t move from his spot in Brian’s chair.

John files a report with the police. There’s a breath of air when there have been no reported accidents with a man of that description in town. The relief settles above them as it turns to despair because they still don’t know where Brian is.

 

> **Ten hours after Brian leaves,** the phone rings.

Roger is the first to answer it. His numb pain turned into blinding anger. He’s going to tell Brian he can stay away for the night since he doesn’t want anything to do with them.

_“This is the Taylor, Deacon, Mercury, May household.”_

_“You filed a report earlier? Can you confirm the make, model, and license plate?”_

Roger rattles off the information robotically. John wouldn’t have left out the information. The operator asked for confirmation. The chill settles around his throat.

_“I’m going to transfer your call. Thank you.”_

He has the phone in a death grip. The only thing keeping it from throwing it away in panic is the information on the other end of the line.

_“I’m Nurse Carter at London General. We’ve received a John Doe matching your description. He’s in critical condition.”_

Roger lets the phone drop and smack onto the wall. The noise is a gunshot in the silence apartment. Louder than any of Freddie’s crying and Roger’s anger. John jumps up from the couch. Freddie is wide-eyed. He can see hope and fear war with each other. He’s not sure what’s winning now, but he thinks it might be fear. The noose tightens and burns colder. Roger can’t get the words out. It feels like his breath is tangled in his ribs.

Somehow, Roger ends up on the ground with his hands tugging at his hair. Freddie is wrapped around him and John has picked up the phone. Roger watches the color drain from John’s face. Freddie doesn’t know what’s been said, but he knows enough. The words look like they’re stuck in John’s throat too.

Freddie picks himself up enough when John wraps around Roger. Roger doesn’t think he’s ever felt John shake like he is. John’s fingers dig deep into his back. It’ll bruise, but the pressure keeps Roger from feeling like he’s going to break. Freddie is on the phone now.

“ _Mary is going to take us to the hospital,” he says._

Roger doesn’t know enough words in any language to describe the absolute noise of pain that rips itself from John’s throat. Freddie wraps around John. There’s a fervent prayer that their fourth member will walk through the door. A look of confusion flushed away with pure concern. John wants to feel the long fingers run through his hair. Roger wants the familiar warmth against his back. Freddie wants to hear his mild tone.

They don’t move from each other until Mary shoves open the door. It startles them. Freddie notes the calm tightness around Mary’s eyes. John sees the tremor in her fists. Roger realizes that she’s dressed in her pajamas. It’s late, he realizes. His small hopes of this not being Brian fade with every second.

Freddie and John still seem to be in denial and Mary is keeping together because they don’t know and someone has to keep it together. Roger knows. He knows and now his mind is going through every possibility. A biology degree and one accidental EMT course give him words bank to fill in the blanks. Somehow, he stands. John is still wrapped around him and Freddie is seconds away from losing it again.

He doesn’t know how he locks his emotions away. It’s something he’s never done. Roger knows that the other two can’t. Not now.

None of them remember the car ride to the hospital. They don’t know how the streets have gotten cleared so fast. Probably for the exact reason they’re going to the hospital. Emergency vehicles. Mary is steady, slower than normal and even slower than what would be a safe top speed. They don’t need a possible repeat.

Roger is shaking by the time they pull up to the hospital. John has tear tracks and Freddie’s face is blank. They’ve never seen the singer not express emotion. Mary lets them out at the front door. They don’t go in until she’s joined him. He doesn’t think that they could go in without her. Mary has the talent of being emotionally stable as their friend, even though she’s become a sister to the boys.

Roger moves to the front desk while Mary ushers John and Freddie into the waiting room chairs.

_“Can I help you?”_

_“A John Doe…” Roger struggles to speak, “he might be someone I’m close to?”_

The tech looks at him sympathetic and professional. She leans over and pulls out a plastic bag from a tub. It slides against the counter. Roger picks it up. His world shatters.

The bag itself is small. Inside is a tarnished, bloody (oh god, oh god, oh god. No. No. No.) silver ring. Roger can see where the blood has dried in the indent that forms a small quarter note. He can’t force his voice to work, so instead, he reaches up around his neck. The noose makes it hard to breathe. The chain pools on the desk and the nurse is confused until she sees a matching ring.

_“What is his name?”_

_“Brian May.”_

_“He’s in surgery.”_

Roger feels like he couldn’t force air into his lungs even with a ventilator. His mind is as blank as the blizzard had made the view outside the window.

_“I’ll let the attending know who he is.”_

The tech gets up and sprints down the corridor. Roger drunkenly stumbles (god he wishes he were drunk. A happy numb instead of this cold numb) back to where the rest of his family is waiting. He means to tell them he loves them. He needs to say it more. Now it may be too late. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck it all to hell.

Roger can’t get the words out. John knows that it’s the worse outcome. It’s not some stranger. Freddie shakes his head as if to wake up from this nightmare. Mary barely catches Roger before he collapses.

_“He’s in surgery,” his voice is wheezy and high even for him._

That’s more than he expected but it also means this is serious. The nurse said critical. Roger thinks an initial reaction may be that it was critical, but he knows that he’s looking for sunshine at the bottom of the sea.

Roger doesn’t know how much time passes until a doctor walks towards them. There’s a splatter of blood on the collar of scrubs and a tired stoop. The sky dark, it always is in the morning of winters, but Roger knows that it’s well into the morning. He can see some pink on the horizon if he cares to look hard enough.

_“We’ve managed to get him stable. He’s on his way to ICU.”_

_“Will he be okay?” John blurts._

_The doctor doesn’t indicate an answer, “hospital policy doesn’t recognize same-sex-”_

_“Then your hospital is in direct violation of the law,” Mary says with anger._

Roger has never seen her that angry before.

_“They’re listed as next of kin. They have the legal right to know.”_

The doctor looks as though he doesn’t want to fight.

_“Now, answer the question.”_

Roger might feel bad about the doctor having to violate the policy, but the policy is keeping him from knowing more about Brian. The doctor looks at the group and back to Mary and then sighs.

_“Only one of you is allowed in the ICU at one time.”_

John volunteers Roger. Freddie doesn’t seem to have come back after hearing the words ICU. Mary coos softly and rubs a hand up and down Freddie’s back. Roger doesn’t regret that Freddie loves her as he does them. Freddie has so much love to give it feels infinite. If only love could outweigh the fragility of a human body.

He is led through straight hallways, that may have been winding for as many turns as they’ve taken. The closer they get to the ICU, the more it feels like he’s passing through the eye of the storm. Roger only remembers coming into the ICU once before, his grandfather had pneumonia, they were just waiting for a Hospice bed.

Sobs taint his ears like an out of tune guitar. He prays to not hear the screech of Death’s Violin from a heart monitor. For anyone, but especially the room he’s being led to. The doctor gestures to the room. A nurse tilts his head in confusion. Roger steps into the room. His eyes are closed. He tries to build up the courage to open them.

A hand falls around his shoulder.

_“You’re here for Brian May?”_

Roger nods.

The doctor, different nods. Roger looks at him to give himself a few moments more before his heart is viscerally torn out of his chest like a boat from a harbor in a hurricane. He notes that there’s a heavy weight to this doctor’s eyes, barely ten years Roger’s senior.

_“It’s a miracle he’s still alive,” the doctor says, not unkindly._

Roger feels like his heart is torn out of his chest. He hasn’t even looked for Christ’s sake.

_“He’s suffered multiple lacerations. Two of which needed stitches, a total of seventy. His shoulder was dislocated. In addition to two fractured ribs his right wrist was fractured,” the doctor rattles off._

He doesn’t know if he wants to stop the man or tell him to keep going. His mind is flipping medical terms to laymen’s terms.

_“Those are the mildest injuries. He has a mild case of hypothermia-”_

_“What happened?”_

_“The EMTs believe that his car hit a patch of ice and spun off the road.”_

Roger closes his eyes to fight off the wave of images of Brian and the car being tossed about as if they didn’t matter.

_“As I was saying before, I believe it is important you understand his condition before I explain further. He has a mild case of hypothermia. The worst of his injuries is that his proper hepatic artery was damaged by shrapnel, which we managed to suture the artery, but we can not tell at this time if an infection has set in. Somehow, the shrapnel remained impaled and applied enough pressure to staunch the blood flow. That’s the only reason he didn’t bleed out.”_

The doctor catches his eye. Roger knows he’s going to like the words coming out the man’s mouth even less than the previous statement. He doesn’t know what’s worse than the thought of Brian bleeding out and not because of the damn thing that nearly killed him.

_“He’s also suffered a skull fracture. It may have saved his life, as there was an out for pressure in the cranial cavity caused by what we believe is a subdermal hematoma, there was no hemorrhagic activity discovered.”_

Roger debates if he wants to be sick or pass out. The hand on his shoulder tightens more. He wonders how much worse the news can get. Fuck. Brian’s heart is still beating because of a thread of near astronomical outcomes. What does the car look like? What does Brian look like? He could tilt his head and look. He’s scared though. Scared that the second he looks it’s going to be the last memory he has of Brian.

Hell. What was his last memory? Their fight. It feels like icy hands have put his heart back just for him to feel the cold burn again.

_“He flatlined twice in the ambulance and once on the table.”_

Roger, by virtue of the hand on his shoulder alone, remains standing but he can barely understand what’s going on. Flatlined.

Brian didn’t have a heartbeat. He had been dead. Brian’s heart had stopped beating.

The sentence doesn’t make sense. Brian, who just this morning made them all eat the last of vegetable soup, so they didn’t waste it. It doesn’t fit into his world.

_“To be completely frank, Mr…?”_

_“Taylor.”_

_“To be completely frank, Mr. Taylor, the odds of Mr. May surviving are incredibly slim. A full recovery is practically impossible. I am sorry to say that you may have to prepare for the worst.”_

The worst? The worst has already happened. Three times. The worst thing that could ever happen to him is if Brian’s heart stopped beating. His brain decides that’s the time to remind him that there are two other people that his heart belongs to. Losing all three would be the worst possible thing. It might happen. If Brian doesn’t- God Brian might-

_“If he makes it through the night, or rather, day, and there are no major complications or infections by tomorrow night, then there is a chance he may survive. The first twenty-four to forty-eight hours are the danger periods of head injuries.”_

Brian has to survive the day. Just twenty-four hours. Roger’s never thought something so simple would be so difficult.

_“Thank you.”_

What else can he say? They’ve done all they can. Roger knows as well as anyone that you can’t win against the body’s natural limitations. You can’t win against a person who’s already given up. He doesn’t think that Brian would give up, but there’s no telling what his last thoughts were. Probably how much they all hated each other. How they left him to die alone and in the middle of a snowstorm.

He barely realizes the doctor leaves. Roger holds back the tears, now that he’s alone for the first time since they all apologized, he can let them go. Not before he sees Brian though. With all the courage he still possesses he turns his head.

Brian. Brian. His sweet Brimi. Roger takes a second to comprehend what he’s seeing. They’ve intubated. There’s IV line pushing a mixture of what he assumes are fluids and antibiotics and painkillers. He stumbles over. Brian’s never been the most movement-oriented person, Roger likes that Brian can sit still for hours staring at stars or playing with someone’s hair while he reads or daydreams. Roger doesn’t like this unnatural stillness.

It makes him think that the doctor was only speaking platitudes and that a slim chance meant no chance. Roger can’t believe that though, because Brian always whispered odds into his ears.

**_“Do you know how many musicians there are in London alone? Or how many people passed the signs we put up? They could’ve ripped them off. Roger, we’ve beaten the odds at finding one another. We can still beat the odds that say we can’t be great.”_ **

**_“Hm. What about the odds of all four of us working out?”_ **

**_“There was never any doubt.”_ **

Brian has always been sweet in a daydreaming way of his. Roger finally is sent to his knees. His hand wrapped around Brian’s (cold.cold.cold. Brian’s always warm. Wrong!) and pushes his head against the bars of the bed. Harsh wracking sobs echo in the silent room. Out of time with the slow heartbeat. Tears burn and his back aches.

Roger loses his sense of time, but he eventually brings the other hand that had been hanging limply at his side up to dash across his eyes. He doesn’t have the tears to cry. Carefully he finds his feet again. The others have to know, and they have to have their time to possibly say- He doesn’t want to think about it, but he can’t let regrets taint the rest of his life. The death would be enough.

_“Brimi, love,” Roger starts quietly, “if you can hear me, and studies show that it’s possible, so you better be listening like always, please don’t give up. I love you. I love you so much. I’m sorry I didn’t say it more. I don’t think I showed it enough either. I was bitchy and whined. I got angry when I shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry. Brimi. Brian Harold May. Don’t join your stars so soon. Who will care for the badgers then?”_

Roger squeezes the hand and waits a heartbeat. He doesn’t get a reaction. He didn’t think he’d get one.

He has anger bubbling under his skin. If he were a more religious man, he might think that this is a warning. That he’s lusted or envied or fell to greed. Roger isn’t religious. He thinks that this is a cruel end to life.

Ice increases the chance of accidents and so does poor visibility and a likely emotional driver.

It’s just bad odds.

Now he has to hope for good ones.

John’s even paler than when he left for the ICU. Freddie looks up, eyes glisten with another wave of tears. Roger hates that look. Can’t imagine what his words and the sight will do. Roger swallows. He needs to prepare them. Repeat what the doctor said. The words and terms get stuck in his throat.

_“It’s not good,” John says sure and shaky at the same time._

Roger shakes his head.

_“They say if he makes it through today, his odds get better,” Roger decides on, “but they aren’t good, to begin with.”_

Fresh sobs start from Freddie and Mary gasps. John goes someplace that none of them can reach. Roger wonders how much he should dig the knife in. It makes him ill to do it but he must let them know. Brian was-is as much their partner as his. He looks to the lightening sky. Mockingly bright, and the snow makes it even lighter. Roger wants to punch a wall until his knuckles turn black and red.

_“He’s got- He’s badly injured. Skull fracture. Broken bones. He lost a lot of blood. Stable for now. Might not make a full recovery.”_

_“If he wakes up.”_

Roger is so stunned by the words he staggers. Freddie. His ever-optimistic Freddie can’t find the space to be optimistic now.

_“Even if he does, what’s to say he wants to see us? What’s to say he’ll remember us?”_

The thought mirrored ones Roger wasn’t conscious of having.

_“Go see him, Fred, you might need to say your goodbyes.”_

It’s cold. If Freddie wants to not believe in the small chance they have, then Roger is going to hammer home what they’ll lose if he’s right. They’ll lose warm laughs and gentle reassurances. The one diplomatic soul in the group. Brian who feels enough for all of them because he’s the only one who decided to figure out emotions even when he was so prone to sadness.

Their melancholy little Brimi.

* * *

Freddie does manage to stand. Roger moves to try and bring John back to earth. His heart is so thoroughly trodden it feels like his first love has walked out on him again. He supposes walking around with three hearts on the outside was his own fault. It’s no fault of his that he’s fallen in love with them.

Roger first. Roger who is stubborn and obnoxious until you see the dandelion bloom. His love is free and the view magical.

John second. John who is all bristles and bramble until you find the path to a single rose. His love is delicate and layered.

Brian last. Brian who is melancholy and mysterious until you catch the water-lily at night. His love hard to find and ever-lasting.

Freddie follows the signs in a haze. It makes him look airy, but he’s drained in ways he’s never felt. The usual inspiration he finds so easily, the kind he taps out on Roger’s thigh or hums against John’s back or sings to Brian’s palm, is absent. It’s a blissfully hateful silence. He doesn’t want to make music, but he hates silence more than anything. It deluges him in loneliness.

Freddie hated the flat for the first time today.

Finding Brian’s room requires a little more presence that he possessed in the hallway. A nurse seems to realize who he’s looking for a helpfully indicates a room. The curtains are closed, and Freddie is pleased because at least he won’t break down in the hallway or be seen when he does breakdown. Quietly, as if he would wake Brian he steps into the room.

He’s overcome with the urge to run out again. Freddie stays because he loves Brian and hates the thought of leaving him alone. John won’t be ready for hours and Roger is seconds away from being overcome by horrible rage and snapping completely. He sways over and rests a hand on top of Brian’s. The one with needles in it, because he fears to touch the one in the cast.

His hand dances gently across the few bandages and cuts on Brian’s face as he follows the lines. He digs his hands into the curls, matted and tangled. They’ll be hell to deal with, but if he can listen to Brian bitch about them, Freddie thinks he might never urge the man to simply cut them again.

_“Love of my life, you've hurt me. You've broken my heart, and now you leave me,” Freddie sings._

Inspiration is always easier when he’s in contact with one of his boys. He’ll finish the song one day when Brian is there to hear it and help him work it completion. If Brian isn’t, Freddie might still write it. He has three people to call the love of his life. He doesn’t love one more than the others. He just thinks it’ll be harder to keep their love as happily heavy as it had been.

It’s hard. Freddie never knew how hard death could hit someone. He’s known the boys for barely a heartbeat when the rest of his time he has left is entered as part of the equation. He can’t imagine being without them now. Their bubble of perfection shattered by their own doing.

_“Brimi. Darling. Dove.”_

Words aren’t hard for him. He bends and twists them together, forces on some occasion. He’s finding the groove to sing something deeper. Something closer to himself. Opening up to people is something he’s never been good at. Brian and Roger were the first people that he barely knew that he let see him. Then again, the way they harmonized was a sign that this is who they’re meant to share their life with. Freddie could never have guessed an epic romance.

He loved the idea of being loved. Being loved is something better than he imagined. But loving someone. He understands that now.

_“I wonder what you’re dreaming of now? Stars and guitars? Or us,” Freddie smiles mist thin, “it’s us, isn’t it? Must be. You love us more than that guitar of yours.”_

Freddie doesn’t know that, but Brian lets Deaky and Roger and himself handle it, and that’s trust.

_“I know you love us, so you must hate hurting us like this. Although, I do owe you an apology from earlier. I hate hurting you, but sometimes its hard. You know that. I’m sorry we went too far. I’m sorry we pushed you away.”_

He’ll be apologizing about this for the rest of his life.

_“Bring it back, bring it back,” he whisper-sings, “love.”_

Freddie can’t find the words, so he hums melodies as they come. Bits of songs that don’t have a soul to them. Lyrics that don’t have music. He traces feather light patterns on Brian’s skin. His eyes don’t leave Brian’s face, he doesn’t want to miss the second that Brian wakes up. A very quiet part of him reminds him that Brian may not wake up and that John still has to come in and say his peace.

John. Who shies away from emotions like they’re a snake, but can’t help but stare and poke at it. This will wreck him. Words he says in anger are words he rarely means, things he doesn’t think but in that second. Freddie knows he hates it. Roger can throw things and yell but he’s never hurtful. Brian’s anger is like the supernovas he mumbles stories about, hot and bright and gone as soon as it came. Freddie’s own anger is easy to provoke and never an outburst but a continuous cattiness.

John is the only one that consistently gets mean. It’s a good thing that he’s the least likely and last to anger.

_“Bri, if not for me. Then for John. Wake up and play guitar with us again.”_

The hardest task in his life has been tearing himself away from Brian’s side. He needs to let John have his moment. Force John to have the moment if he must. Freddie is tired of singing to an audience of one that isn’t awake to comment on his vocal expertise. Brian would critique and laugh at the way some of his runs have gone wonky with the rawness in his throat from crying. He’d listen to, because Brian has a musical aptitude like himself, except he knows where to reign it in.

**_“Of course, you can hold the note every time you get to this word, but why?”_ **

**_“Because I can.”_ **

**_“Why not hold this note, and then bring in the harmony here? Break up the chorus a bit.”_ **

**_“I didn’t think of that.”_ **

Freddie smiles sadly.

The nurse also smiles sadly. He’s young and probably not five years out of nursing school.

_“I’m sorry about your… Friend. It’s good that people are with him and that he had someone to identify them.”_

Freddie doesn’t want to know about the other John Does that died in the ICU because they had no reason to bring their wanderer’s soul back. He’s going to be pissed if that’s why Brian comes back late.

That’s a lie. He’ll be as happy as the day he heard I love you from his boys.

He has a lighter heart, but his soul is heavy. Brian seemed untouchable in his head because the idea of a life without Brian is a life he doesn’t want to consider. Although, the worry that Brian wouldn’t want to come back to them has abated some. Brian doesn’t take back the love he gives, and they may have gone on break or maybe broken off the romantic part of their relationship, but he knows Brian would’ve come back to the flat.

He’s the one who always thinks through their problems anyway.

Roger is draped along one the benches in the waiting room. Freddie doesn’t know how, but even his hair looks dull. Mary is sitting off to the side, worrying at the chain of her necklace. John seems to have come back from where ever he went mentally. They should also call Brian’s parents. They worried them with asking after Brian’s location. He can’t though and nor can Roger. The only one they like (currently) is John who they seem to be of the mind was also “corrupted” by Roger and Freddie’s wicked ways.

Except John is in no state to deliver bad news to anyone.

Roger eyes him and then goes back to staring at the ceiling. John doesn’t meet his eyes. Mary inclines her head.

_“Mary, lovely, can you do me a favor?”_

_“Of course. What do you need Freddie?”_

Brian healthy and awake. This day to have never happened.

_“Can you call Brian’s parents and let them know about the situation?”_

_“Do you have their number?”_

Freddie writes it down and hands it to Mary. He doesn’t want to imagine what it would feel like to have his only child ripped from his arms like this. He barely understands what it feels like when it’s his lover. The seat next to John is vacant now as Mary has taken her bag. He taps a rhythm on his thigh. John doesn’t get up.

He doesn’t get up for half an hour.

_“John. Go. If the worse happens… well, you’ll have regrets about not seeing him one last time.”_

_“Maybe I don’t want to see him like this.”_

Freddie wouldn’t blame John. It makes sense.

_“You don’t have anything you would say to him?”_

_“It does me as much good saying them out here, rather than in there.”_

Roger sits up.

_“Are you really not going Deaks?”_

_“I can’t.”_

Roger stands and goes down the hallways again. Freddie leans against the chair.

_“The last thing he’s going to remember me saying is that we shouldn’t be a band and listen to his father.”_

_“We can’t know what life means. If the worse happens, then well, I’d like to believe Brian didn’t have any regrets.”_

Freddie hates what he’s saying. If he keeps saying maybe, it’ll feel more real. Keep his heart from joining Brian six feet under. It’s an impossible dream, but that seems to be the trend of the day.

 

> **Six hours after Brian was found,** he’s still stable.
> 
> **Seven hours after Brian was found,** Mary forces the three of them to eat.
> 
> **Eight hours after Brian was found,** the Mays arrives at the hospital.

Harold and Ruth hug Roger and Freddie for the first time.

 

> **Nine hours after Brian was found,** John goes into the bathroom to cry.
> 
> **Ten hours after Brian was found,** Freddie wants a drink.
> 
> **Eleven hours after Brian was found,** the blood tests come back with indications of an infection.

Roger punches a mirror.

 

> **Twelve hours after Brian was found,** Roger has thirteen stitches in his hand.

Freddie tries not to take it as a sign.  

 

> **Thirteen hours after Brian was found,** John makes it through his first pack of cigarettes.
> 
> **Fourteen hours after Brian was found,** Freddie falls asleep holding Brian’s hand.
> 
> **Twenty hours after Brian was found,** imaging finds that there are no new bleeds and that the stitches are holding.
> 
> **Twenty-four hours after Brian was found,** he’s still stable.

The doctor finds Freddie in the hallway, on his way to Brian’s room.

_“We’re keeping him on the vent for at least another twenty-four hours unless he shows signs of waking.”_

It’s a much more encouraging stance than how Roger described. He relays the news to the others before he takes his perch next to the bed.

_“So, you’re still fighting, or are you just not bored of wherever you are yet? I promise I’m far more interesting.”_

Freddie tightens the grip he has on Brian’s hand.

_“Your parents like Roger and me again, by the way. See what you’re missing out on?”_

 

> **Thirty-six hours after Brian was found,** Mary makes John and Freddie go home and wash up.
> 
> **Forty hours after Brian was found,** Roger is dragged home to rest for seven hours and eat something.
> 
> **Forty-eight hours after Brian was found,** he’s still stable.

The doctor’s remove the ventilator.

He’s able to breathe on his own.

 

> **Fifty-five hours after Brian was found,** Roger is in the room at the signs of a return of normal motor function.
> 
> **Sixty hours after Brian was found,** John finally goes into the room.

_“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said that. I’m sorry I’m so distant. I’m sorry I was a coward and couldn’t see you until your chances improved. I’m so happy you’re breathing on your own.”_

John sobs. He bends down to press his face in Brian’s good shoulder. He’s warmer than the others complained about. His hand slots into bony (bonier hands, is that even possible?) hands.

Something squeezes his fingers and John jumps in surprise. Brian’s eyes only reacted to light and his foot was doing the normal reaction. He hadn’t started squeezing. It makes John run to the nurses’ station with the good news.

They confirm it.

The ICU and the family release a great breath of relief.

_“Told you he was waiting for you,” Freddie says. Not egotistic in the slightest._

 

> **Sixty-Seven hours after Brian was found,** the infection gets worse and his fever starts to climb.

John hides in Freddie’s chest.

_“Oh god. He’s going to survive all of the injuries only to die of an infection,” Roger sobs._

Freddie doesn’t know how to react. John stares in shock. Roger isn’t angry, he’s just defeated.

That night the three of them piled into the corner to wait for the results of the surgery.

 

> **Seventy-Two hours after Brian was found,** the gangrenous wound (a mild and ignored staff infection the nurses missed) stops spreading.

Roger pretends that he doesn’t see Harold May sobbing at the good news over the form that would have him amputate his son’s arm.

 

> **Four days after Brian is declared stable,** the doctors begin weaning him off the medication keeping him asleep.
> 
> **Five days after Brian is declared stable,** Brian is moved out of the ICU.
> 
> **Six days after Brian is declared stable,** John takes the first shift sleeping in the cot.

No one wants Brian to wake up alone.

John doesn’t want to be the first person he sees.

 

> **Seven days after Brian is declared stable,** the doctors start talking under their breath about brain damage.

Freddie scoffs and hovers over Brian’s bed.

_“You’re looking an awful lot like a sleeping beauty. Should I kiss you to wake you up?”_

It doesn’t work. He refuses to believe that Brian can have full reflexes and still have brain damage keeping him in the coma.

Freddie demands that Roger and John do the same thing. A kiss to wake the sleeping prince of the universe.

He files the phrase away for a future song. When things can be upbeat again.

 

> **Nine days after Brian is declared stable,** a person comes to talk to Ruth and Harold about signing papers so Brian’s organs can be donated.

John gets sick in the bathroom. Roger demands that they give it more time.

_“Please. Two weeks is the minimum. They’re vultures.”_

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the blond go more than three hours without smiling. John doesn’t think he’s seen it in a week.

Nine days to be exact.

Freddie keeps up his tradition of kissing Brian in hello and goodbye.

Roger doesn’t say goodbye.

John wonders if the person that gets Brian’s heart will start loving space and music.

 

> **Eleven days after Brian is declared stable,**  no one says anything.

Roger hasn’t spoken in the two days since the men asked for the organs. His hair is greasy, and he doesn’t look like the pinup boy that he knows Brian fell in love with.

He taps out their private rhythm against Brian’s chest. The one from before he created one for Freddie, Brian, John, and himself. The one that was even before Freddie, Brian and himself.

 

> **Fifteen days after Brian is declared stable,** John doesn’t come to the hospital that day.

Mary comes instead.

 

> **Sixteen days after Brian is declared stable,** Freddie sees Harold and Ruth talking in the corner.

Roger still hasn’t said anything.

Freddie bows his head as he sits in the plastic chair. He does something he hasn’t done since he was a boy in Zanzibar. His fingers touch his lips.

All they can do is wait.

 

> **Seventeen days after Brian is declared stable,** he wakes up.

Roger is the first to notice. He’s keeping his silent vigil at the end of Brian’s bed. Mary once again forced him to go home and eat.

_“For god’s sake Roger, don’t make it look like you’re the one who died!”_

That woman is a force of nature. No wonder Freddie loves her.

He’s grown accustomed to Brian’s face since that first night in the E.R., but today there looks like he’s in REM. It’s a good sign, but meaningless if Brian doesn’t wake up. Roger closes his eyes to fight back the anger and pain in his hand-

_“Yes, John. I’m aware that was stupid.”_

And when he opens them there’s a pair of hazel ones staring quizzically at him. No one else has noticed until Roger collapses under the weight of his relief. He lets out sobs that tangle into laughs and it sounds a little deranged.

It’s been a long two weeks.

John jumps when he sees Roger topple to the floor. He thinks that Roger’s collapsed in exhaustion. That is until when he’s on his feet he catches the same sight that sent Roger to the ground. He’s stunned.

Brian looks confused.

He smiles the largest smile he’s ever smiled and rushes towards the side of the bed. His hand reaches out and touches Brian’s forehead and brushes the (impossibly) messier curls away from his face. The hazel eyes track his movement sluggishly.

John is worried about what the doctor meant by full recovery is impossible, but for now hazel is the prettiest eye color he’s ever seen (sorry Roger). He laughs loud and bright.

It’s John’s laugh that stirs Freddie from his fitful sleep. Freddie sees Roger on the ground but John laughing. His eyes track to Brian’s face. Now that he’s moved Brian’s eyes track to his. He breathes out a long sigh of relief and smiles without hiding his teeth as he joins John at the side of the bed.

Roger picks himself off the floor and Roger is beaming.

“Lazy bastard,” John says with no heat, “you’ve had us worried for nothing.”

Brian tilts his head.

“Darling you’re going to lounge around, the least you could do is let us see those pretty eyes.”

Brian frowns.

“I’m going to kick your ass if you ever do this again. Also, I missed you.”

He knows those voices and those words. He can’t focus on the faces. The lights are too harsh.

They’re suddenly not harsh. Words get stuck in his throat. A glass of water gets put to his lips.

“Remember. They said when he wakes up, he’s going to do it in steps.”

“I’ll go get the doctor.”

 

> **Five days after Brian wakes up,** he finally speaks for the first time.

“Hi,” he settles on.

Freddie laughs. John rolls his eyes. Roger looks playfully livid.

“You had one chance to have an epic speech, and you go with hi?”

Freddie laughs harder. John snorts. Roger squawks at the reaction.

Words are still a little tricky. The doctor promises him it’s all part of the process of waking up. It’ll help determine what the lasting effects are from the trauma and the coma. He still doesn’t remember the accident and didn’t recognize Mary when she visited.

“Okay?”

“You’re healing,” John answers.

Brian shakes his head. He fumbles a little for the words and sentence structure, “are you all okay?”

Roger runs a hand through his hair, “you nearly die, and you ask how we are? The hell?”

Freddie laughs at how quickly Roger is cowed under the raised eyebrow.

“We’re… getting there.”

Brian takes that as a good enough answer.

 

> **Seven days after Brian wakes up,** Brian manages to stay awake for a full day.

The stitches in his abdomen come out. He’s allowed to move without the sling for a limited period.

He’s also alone at night for the first time since waking up. Apparently, the hospital is only so lenient.

 

> **Ten days after Brian wakes up,** they start to figure out the symptoms of the TBI.

The doctors say he’s going to suffer from light and audio triggered migraines for the rest of his life. He’ll also probably have trouble remembering words or phrases. He’s glad his speaking is intact, they can work around the remembering.

They also tell him that his shoulder motion is never going to be where it was. He’s going to have to go through months of physical therapy to regain his manual dexterity.

“We get to hear you sing a lot, love.”

“You can replace me on my triangle solo.”

“He’s the best guitarist in Britain and now he has a tragic backstory. You can stop being the total package at any time Bri.”

 

> **Thirteen days after Brian wakes up,** he starts physical therapy.
> 
> **Fifteen days after Brian wakes up,** the first migraine hits him.

He didn’t know Roger knew how to handle migraines.

Deaky told him later that Roger’s been researching everything he can about his new medical conditions. Freddie’s learned out to cook.

“And what have you done?” Brian asks teasingly.

“I’m here.”

There’s a story behind that. He just doesn’t want to press right now. Not since they’ve figured out how to fit two people onto his bed. Deaky (he can’t believe he had to relearn all his pet names), curls into him.

“Don’t do this again.”

Brian presses a kiss to his head, “if you promise not to do it either.”

“Deal.”

 

> **Eighteen days after Brian wakes up,** he goes home.

**Author's Note:**

> Personal timeline preference is 1972-1973. The Glasglow Coma Scale was not put into mainstream use until 1974, I could've bumped the year up. But I'm stubborn, and really I didn't need any more tension in this story.  
> I hope y'all don't hate me too much?  
> This style was literally too pretty to pass up, even though I have like several other stories I could be working on.  
> I mostly missed writing with flowery writing, and since I had a few key phrases. Here we go.  
> As always leave your thoughts below or come yell at me @sammyspreadyourwings on tumblr!


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